Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [104]
“Watson.” Holmes shook his bandaged head as he listened to my tale. “Your aim is slipping.”
“So it would appear,” I agreed. Holmes listened to the account I gave to Scotland Yard without comment or question. Nor did he make any inquiries as we journeyed back to Baker Street. Very quickly the matter became just another case. Other crimes took Holmes’ fancy. A letter of gratitude arrived from the much-improved Catherine Drayson. Another grateful missive from her father informed us of her release from the asylum. Such tokens were nothing new to Holmes and, as was his custom, he ignored them. Holmes quickly put the case behind him. However, as you might suppose, I have thought of the matter often.
It is not my custom to hide the truth from my friends. Sherlock Holmes is dauntless in the face of horrors which chill my blood. Murder and violence, the screams of the innocent and the doings of evil men, all part of Holmes’ environment and as natural to him as water to a fish. Yet, as courageous as he undoubtedly is, Holmes is not without his personal demons. He lives a life built upon small but unshakable truths, upon what is and is not possible. Catherine Drayson and her savage partner disappeared from Willingham’s apartment. In Sherlock Holmes’ world such things cannot be.
Sometimes I assure myself I acted to protect my friend. When confronted with a horror not of this world, I feared his skills, as a detective, would be rendered useless. Robbed of the very foundations of his courage, how would Holmes react? Such an event could well push him back into the drug usage we had struggled so hard to put behind him. The reality of other worlds, of beings such as the Melvaris and their unexplainable magic, seemed a truth which might unravel Holmes. A revelation capable of tainting the detective’s skills with doubt, poisoning his future work. At such times I am convinced my response was entirely appropriate and that my actions were those of a loyal friend.
Yet there are other times. Late at night, when sleep is inexplicably elusive, my thoughts stray into the shadowy realms of doubt and I wonder. Were my actions those of a friend or was it simple cowardice? If Holmes had witnessed the truth, had seen the creature sent to kill Willingham, where would he be now? In his own way Holmes has always been a hunter of terrible monsters. A man who exposed secrets. Given the choice would he remain here, solving crimes in London, or would he venture forth to explore that world under the red sun? I find myself reaching for the answer but it eludes me still, eclipsed by another, more troubling question. If Holmes were to leave this world, would I follow?
Merridew of Abominable Memory
Merridew of Abominable Memory
by Chris Roberson
The old man reclined on a chaise-longue, warmed by the rays of the rising sun which slanted through the windows on the eastern wall. In the garden below, he could see the other patients and convalescents already at work tending the greenery with varying degrees of attention. The gardens of the Holloway Sanatorium were the responsibility of the patients, at least those tasks which didn’t involve sharp implements, and the nurses and wardens saw to it that the grounds were immaculate. Not that the patients ever complained, of course. Tending a hedge or planting a row of flowers was serene and contemplative compared to the stresses which had lead most of the patients to take refuge here, dirty fingernails and suntanned necks notwithstanding.
No one had asked John Watson to help tend the garden, but then, he could hardly blame them. Entering the middle years of his eighth decade of life, his days of useful manual labor were far behind him, even if he wasn’t plagued by ancient